O The GALLANT fisher’s life, It is the best of any! ’T is full of pleasure, void of strife, And ’t is beloved by many; Other joys Are but toys; Only this Lawful is; For our skill Breeds no ill, But content and pleasure.* * * * * When we please to walk abroad For our recreation, In the fields is our abode, Full of delectation, Where, in a brook, With a hook,— Or a lake,— Fish we take; There we sit, For a bit, Till we fish entangle. We have gentles in a horn, We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn, Suffer rain and storms too; None do here Use to swear: Oaths do fray Fish away; We sit still, Watch our quill: Fishers must not wrangle. If the sun’s excessive heat Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get, For a friendly shelter; Where, in a dike, Perch or pike, Roach or dace, We do chase. Bleak or gudgeon, Without grudging; We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower, Making earth our pillow; Where we may Think and pray, Before death Stops our breath; Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented.